


Symbiosis

by shcrlockholmcs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Case Fic, Declarations Of Love, Depression, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, It's For a Case, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Series 4 Fix It, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Whump, s4 fix it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 23:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shcrlockholmcs/pseuds/shcrlockholmcs
Summary: John Watson's life has been turned upside down once again. The last six months started with finding out Mary's baby wasn't his, that she was carrying out Moriarty's legacy, and ended with her death.Now John is left to struggle with the weight of recent events while trying to readjust to living with Sherlock. But every moment between them is filled with things unsaid and matters unresolved.But life doesn't stop just because you're broken inside. With everything between them threatening to pull them apart, they have to learn to navigate it together or let it destroy them forever.





	Symbiosis

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Some of you may be familiar with this work, because you read my first version, which I have now taken down. I kept a lot of the first two chapters here in this new first chapter, but you will notice I am approaching things differently. Instead of playing out everything with Mary as it happens, we will discover things as flashbacks, and the majority of this fic will focus on post-Mary John and Sherlock. 
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta, Macki (@potentiallyAWKWARD here on AO3).
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The last 24 hours of John’s life were a blur.

A painful, confusing, complicated blur. 

He scrubbed his hands across his face in an attempt to wipe his mind clear as he sat down in his chair—his old, sturdy, familiar chair—in Baker Street. It had almost begun to feel wrong sitting in this chair. Everything in his life had begun to feel wrong the moment Mary shot Sherlock. 

But that event was several months passed and only the catalyst for the much longer list of problems that plagued John’s brain. 

It had _almost_ begun to feel wrong sitting in his chair at Baker Street, but now it was his penultimate source of grounding—it was the singular thing that felt safe right now. John pulled his hands away from his face and rubbed up and down the arms of his chair as if trying to remember what it felt like. 

_His_ chair, the one Sherlock had moved in a fit of something John still didn’t quite understand, only to put it back when he deduced who had shot him. This chair was where John had his first revelation about Mary, what she had done, Sherlock’s subtle perfume bottle clue left on the table next to it. 

He looked over at the table—it was empty now. There was no physical symbol of his wife’s betrayal anywhere to be seen, but the deep ache in his chest remained. A deep, rueful pain that he hoped would go away but instead it grew with each passing moment. An ache that he had to learn to disguise, bury deep down, so deep that not even the sharp mind of Mary Morstan could detect it. 

There was less than an hour between the time in which he realized what the return of his chair and the placement of the perfume bottle meant and when he was placed in a chair at the end of a darkened hallway to await Mary’s self-incriminating confession. It was within this short amount of time that he and Sherlock had devised an inexplicably complicated and incoherent plan to move forward. John had once again found himself with heart and soul in hand, offering it up to Sherlock, trusting this madman with his life—this time quite literally—desperate for a sense of what was going on. Except there were some startling differences this go around:Sherlock was including him, John was being let in on the game, and there were no secrets—not from Sherlock, anyway.

The plan was simple on paper, but endlessly complicated when it came to the emotional implications. It required John to dawn a hat he neither enjoyed or possessed naturally. He had to put on an act, continue to play the devoted husband, despite the unforgivable trespass Mary committed. She had done the most unspeakable thing, the thing that no one in their right mind who knew and loved John Watson would dare commit—shoot Sherlock.. Hurting Sherlock was the ultimate crime one could commit against John—no, it went beyond that, it was more than just a wrongdoing. In hurting Sherlock, Mary had hurt John, too, and effectively tore him apart, breaking every fibre of his being, and marked herself as treasonous to John’s very being.

But John swallowed the bitter pill and went along with Sherlock’s gut-wrenching plan. The hours after Mary’s reveal, her discovery of John’s awareness, the dreadful conversation at Baker Street, drug on like an amputation without anesthesia. It had been an intricate dance John had to perform—outrage with willingness to listen at Sherlock’s pleas—both of them pretending to consider giving Mary a second-chance. The need to be convincing, despite the fact that Sherlock defending an ex-assassin who shot him with the intention to kill, was both ridiculous and unrealistic. 

Sherlock stood there, defending Mary, and treating her like a client with an earnestness that hollowed out John’s heart and made him forget for a moment that this was a ploy. There was no secret about Sherlock’s deceptive capabilities, but it was haunting to see nonetheless. Especially when they were being leveraged against his wife—God, his wife—who had intended to kill his best friend. Especially when John was struggling to keep up, play along, and play along just as proficiently. 

It was simple on paper, but it threatened to wreck John beyond emotional repair. 

The plan was simple: to be believable, John would have to spend a few weeks away from Mary, back at Baker Street while he contemplated whether to leave her or not. She had given him a flash drive with files filled with incriminating evidence of her past life. It was supposedly in this time John would be contemplating how to handle this information. After a few weeks, when they finally reconvened at Sherlock’s parents’ home for Christmas, John would lie to Mary and say he did not read the flash drive and that he would rather move forward with her regardless of her past.

And it had worked. 

That was where the worst 24 hours of his life began.

Up until Christmas Day, everything he and Sherlock had devised had gone accordingly. But when they had arrived at Magnussen’s, things had rapidly deteriorated into a situation beyond anyone’s calculations. The plan fell to shit in less than 15 minutes. 

John found his heart aching worse than it did with the news of Mary’s betrayal as he watched Sherlock’s helpless expression. Seeing Sherlock in a fit of utter hopelessness felt more humiliating than the flicks Magnussen delivered to his face. 

A whirlwind of a gunshot, Mycroft’s underhanded government negotiations, and a goodbye that was ungratifying and inadequate. There were thousands of words left on John’s tongue as he watched Sherlock board a plane to God-knows-where. But he could not bring himself to voice any of them—especially with?Mycroft and Mary just feet away—and his own future foggy. His heart suffocating under the inexplicable feeling of losing someone for the second time. 

**Did you miss me?**

 

_God, yes._

That had been John’s first thought, solely because Moriarty’s face on every television in London was truly the only thing that could bring Sherlock back. And it did. Never in his Godforsaken life did John expect to owe Moriarty—or whoever was behind this—a word of thanks, but John had been wrong on multiple occasions. This was no different.

Heartbreak was not sufficient for describing the feelings John had upon seeing Sherlock high as a kite. And those feelings deepened when the gravity of his dosage came to light—a dose not even a superhero could survive, let alone Sherlock Holmes. After a brief interlude of Mycroft crafting another underhanded governmental deal to reverse Sherlock’s sentence and a pit stop at the A&E to stabilize Sherlock’s vitals, he and John landed back at Baker Street. 

Anthea had taken a separate car with Mary after Sherlock had gotten off the plane per Mycroft’s orders. She was to drop Mary off at Baker Street where she could wait for John and Sherlock’s return. Despite her adamant protests that she did not need to be coddled, Mycroft’s stubbornness (and government pull) won out. 

Less than twenty minutes ago, he and Sherlock had climbed the stairs to Baker Street only to find Mary’s cellphone, a sealed envelope with papers inside, and a handwritten note on the kitchen table. 

**Sorry. Don’t try to find me. xxx Mary**

There John sat. Back in his chair at Baker Street. His wife—his pregnant wife—had run off to God knows where. And John found himself struggling to feel bad about it. How could he feel bad? He had Sherlock back—for the second time in a single lifetime—and he was sitting in his chair at _his_ home. Who had he ever been kidding? Baker Street had always, would always, be home. 

Time seemed to speed passed and yet not move at all. The snow had long been melted and Mrs Hudson’s petunias had just begun to bloom and John was still in this chair.

“John.”

John abruptly snapped out of his trance.

He looked up from his lap, staring across at his madman of a friend who sat in the chair opposite him. Sherlock sat there, hands resting anxiously on his thighs, his face contorted in worry. Ever since Sherlock came back, the first time, he had gotten worse at hiding his true emotions. Or maybe it wasn’t that—maybe instead Sherlock no longer wanted to hide them. Maybe Sherlock also felt the importance of expressing one’s true feelings, the whole of missed opportunities and mistakes. But there was no point in dwelling on that now—squash those thoughts out, this is hardly the time. John frowned. 

“Sorry, what?”

“I said your name five times before you responded. That’s five times slower than your average response rate to my voice,” Sherlock said, his explanation clinical but his voice wavering. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock leaned forward, his elbows perching on his knees and his chin coming to rest upon his woven together hands. His eyes were narrowed, honed in on John’s face, searching for information to pull for further deductions. John was used to the intensity of Sherlock’s looks, but he squirmed this time and a rough, ironic laugh escaped his lips. 

“No, I’m not bloody okay,” he started. “I haven’t been for fucking six months. Actually, I haven’t even recovered from you being shot, let alone…”

His voice died in his throat. Their current circumstances felt too unbelievable to give voice to them. He settled for waving his hand in the air by way of explanation. 

Sherlock nodded curtly. The wear of the last six months was worn deep into his face. It was painful for John to look at him directly, because all he saw was Sherlock’s attempted suicide. Even now Sherlock moved slower, he looked ill and exhausted. 

John didn’t need to ask why Sherlock had done it. He knew once he saw. Sherlock had received a death sentence under the guise of an international James Bond mission. He was never meant to set foot on London soil again. 

And yet here they were. Two miracles in one lifetime and John knew he should feel more grateful than he did at the moment. 

Suddenly all he wanted to do was sleep. 

“I’m going to bed,” he announced, standing up from his chair and sluggishly making his way up the stairs. Sherlock did not bother giving a reply. 

When the back of John’s head hit his pillow and he closed his eyes, he found that his memory was flooded with images of hunting down Mary, finding out the baby wasn’t his, and discovering links between his, now ex, wife and Moriarty.

The nightmares were back in full force, more vivid than ever, the events all too recent in his waking life, too.

A month passed before either one of them spoke Mary’s name again. That month was spent nursing Sherlock’s physical health and John’s spirit. John was back at his therapist’s office and spent a lot of his free time exercising to get out his frustration. Sherlock was on a strict regimen of healthy food, a normal sleep schedule, and light exercise—Doctor Watson’s orders. To say that his deadly drug cocktail had taken a toll on his body’s function was an understatement. But by the end of the month both he and John were stronger individually—their individual wounds nursed enough to keep them standing. 

However, their partnership was in near shambles. Fewer words had been spoken between them over the last month than they had previously averaged in a single day. Their longest conversation was John dictating Sherlock’s diet and lecturing him about the importance of sleep. 

One Tuesday morning, while Sherlock was out, John had decided to sit down at his laptop and try writing up parts of the Mary case per Ella’s advice. Blogging had always been a way he processed the stress of cases and turned it into something worthwhile, but he had been staying away from this one for several obvious reasons.

He closed his eyes and began to recall how it all played out.

_A month after Mary left, Lestrade barged into 221B, out of breath and at his wit’s end. He handed over a thick case file and ran a shaking hand through his hair._

_“We’ve done all we can. We’ve got repeated, identical crimes with no connection between the victims except for one unusual item—busts of Margaret Thatcher. Someone is goin’ ‘round breaking into people’s homes, shattering pieces of Thatcher artwork.”_

_“They all came from the same artist?” Sherlock asked as he flipped through the file. John sat on the arm of his own chair with his arms crossed over his chest, looking entirely nonplussed._

_“Yeah, but that’s the only connection,” Lestrade affirmed._

_“So what’s the point of that then? Someone just really hate Thatcher?” John asked, scoffing a laugh at the idea._

_“That’s a lot of effort for a personal vendetta against a dead politician,” Sherlock mumbled. “Especially considering most of these homes are of wealthy families that undoubtedly have high security systems—possibly even guards on the premises to protect their assets.”_

_Sherlock skimmed through the file, frowning as he turned each page, mouthing key words to himself. The case appeared to present no immediate danger but grasped his attention anyway. It was the nonsensical nature of the crime, the invisible motive, that drew him in. The lure of a case was infinitely more appealing than any drug he could inject into his body. Just as he had begun to distance himself from the withdrawal of narcotics a promising case swooped in and filled his need._

_John saw the interest gleaming in Sherlock’s eyes. He moved from his spot to look over Sherlock’s shoulder, taking in as much information as he could while Sherlock sped through the file._

_“There is one thing I should let you know,” Lestrade started, hesitant and shifting from foot-to-foot with uncertainty. “There’s a reason why Mycroft and I waited so long to bring this to your attention…”_

_“What is it?” Sherlock asked, impatient as he flipped to the final page of the file. It was a single image, a blurry, screenshot of security system footage, but distinct enough. A singular blonde female in all black, creeping through a home art gallery towards a stone Margaret Thatcher bust._

_“It’s Mary,” John said, his tone flat and face devoid of any emotion._

_Unsurprisingly, Lestrade lead them downstairs to the long black car waiting to sweep them away to Mycroft’s office._

This is where John quit typing. He could feel his heart start to race at the thought of what was next to be recalled—bits of information he would delete before the official blog post, but he had to run through them to maintain accuracy. 

He closed his eyes again and Mycroft’s office spun into view.

_“She gave birth about two weeks ago,” Mycroft explained, sitting behind his large desk while tapping his umbrella on the corner. “The condition of the child, however, I am unaware of.”_

_“Why didn’t you tell us?” John demanded._

_“It was inconsequential,” was the cold reply. Mycroft raised his brows so high they nearly disappeared into the top of his hairline?._

_Once they had identified the subject in the surveillance video screenshot it was imperative they go speak to Mycroft. Ever since Mary’s disappearance the elder Holmes had been keeping a watch on her—only for the sake of John’s concern for his unborn child._

_“Inconsequential?” This time it was Sherlock shouting. He was back on his feet, rising from the chair he had occupied, slamming the palms of his hands on his brother’s desk._

_John was never fearful of Sherlock or his fits of rage, but he could always discern when they were genuine or a ruse to intimidate someone. This one was real. And it made his stomach tighten._

_It should be John who was shouting—it was the birth of his child that had been kept from him._

_“Sherlock,” Mycroft started, his eyebrows still high and his expression expectant. Sherlock returned the expression in kind._

_This was the part that always frustrating for John—when the Holmes brothers had an entire dialogue without saying a single word out loud. John stepped forward, looking between the two, with his arms crossed over his chest—defensive and closed off. Even after years of Holmes’ standoffs John still struggled to decode each expression. The slightest change in stance or face said multiple things at once. It was infuriating to be on the outside of it all—another thing to not be included in._

_“What?” John asked as he finally snapped. Too many quiet moments had passed by and being left in the dark shortened his patience._

_Sherlock stood up straight and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, face wiped blank and his eyes cast downward. He was hesitating, something he only did when trying to be gentle with John, usually before unpleasant news was shared. This made John’s body tense and he frowned deeply._

_“What, Sherlock?” he repeated, turning to face his friend and shut Mycroft out._

_Even now, as angry as he was with Sherlock, Mycroft, this entire situation—John felt the need to make Sherlock feel comfortable enough to deliver whatever information he had._

_The word “sentiment” rang in his head, in Sherlock’s baritone voice, and he internally scoffed at himself._

_“You never opened that envelope Mary left you,” he began, casting Mycroft a brief look. “And I didn’t either. However, I didn’t need to because I deduced the contents and they contained information Mycroft had already shared with me.”_

_John looked back-and-forth between Sherlock and Mycroft; this time he was the one with eyebrows raised waiting for the other shoe to drop. He kept a calm exterior but his heart was starting to pick up speed. Was it because of fear or anger that Sherlock had kept something else from him?_

_“Inside that envelope were test results,” Sherlock’s voice wavered and his face was pained. Previously John believed his friend to be incapable of sentiment, but recent months had proven him incorrect—this moment was no different._

_“Results confirming the paternity of the baby.”_

_“A Mr. David Livingston,” Mycroft finished, apparently bored with Sherlock’s delicate handling of the information._

_Static crackled in his ears and his eyes saw red; his face hot. He looked at his feet, holding up a single finger in Sherlock’s direction when he had started to speak._

_“No,” John stammered. “No. Not a word from you.”_

_Sherlock flinched, the hand that was reaching out to John dropping down to his side._

_“You **knew**? You knew and you didn’t tell me?” John raged, pointed finger trembling. “Christ, Sherlock—what do I have to do? What do I have to do to earn the right to know what the hell is going on? In my own damn life?”_

_“I—I had determined you weren’t fit to know. Not yet—you hadn’t the strength to even open the envelope—“_

_“You don’t get to decide what I can or cannot handle, Sherlock!”_

_The room echoed with the hostility of John’s voice. He turned to leave and Sherlock started protesting his departure._

_“No. Leave me be,” John said before disappearing out the door._

_Sherlock moved to face his brother, expecting to see smugness or general disapproval, but instead he was greeted with sympathy. A snide remark came to his mind but it died in his throat when Mycroft sighed and leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk and chin on his hands._

_“Brother mine, you did what you thought was best,” he began. “I believe it is imperative you give Doctor Watson some space, but if my deductions are correct, he will come around.”_

_There was no sarcastic reply. All words were futile._

_The next bit John fancifully created in his mind, unsure of the truth behind his thoughts running wild._

_The journey back to Baker Street launched Sherlock into a dangerous thought spiral. It began innocent enough—thinking about how he could apologize to John and sincerely explain his thinking behind his actions. But then he remembered the way John had shouted his name, how he stormed out, and the unbridled anger in his eyes. This was hardly the first time Sherlock had misjudged what was best for John and certainly not the first time he had upset his friend. But it was one of the first times John had looked at him with that face. A face sculpted by pain and indignation._

_Sherlock’s reasoning had been simple enough—John did not open the envelope Mary left for him because he was not ready to and if he was not ready to read what Mary left him then he certainly was not ready for Sherlock to drop the same bombshell on him. John was obviously in a fragile emotional and mental state—Sherlock was only trying to protect him. It was not Sherlock’s intention to never tell him—well, actually, the plan was for John to find out on his own when he was ready to open that envelope—but still. John being furious with Sherlock was very much so not part of the plan._

_It was disheartening, to say the least, that despite his progress in becoming more considerate he still made such big mistakes when it came to John. When Sherlock had come back after the fall he vowed, to himself, that this go around with John would be more intentional, kinder, as he endeavored to let the man know how much he meant to him._

_And yet it was that very intention that had landed him in such a bad spot with John._

_When he entered Baker Street he did not know what to do with himself. John was obviously not back home yet—why would he be? Right now the whole point was to avoid Sherlock at all costs._

_Sherlock stood in the middle of the flat, feeling more than a little helpless, staring at John’s chair. Deep down he knew this pill was harder for John to swallow because there were still so many unspoken things between them._

_When Sherlock first came back from the grave—metaphorically, anyway—John had demanded to know why and his question went unanswered. How could Sherlock possibly begin to explain why he faked his death without exposing things that could not be spoken—no, especially not since John had found happiness with Mary while Sherlock was away._

_Sure, the surface level answer was easy—Moriarty had snipers on the people Sherlock loved most and they would perish unless Sherlock faked his death. But beneath that there was so much more—why John was one of those targets to begin with—friendship, best friendship, sure—but._

_But Sherlock felt things beyond that—unspeakable things because of Mary, because of the risk of what he might lose in voicing those feelings. No, it was not worth the loss of John’s friendship. It had been and would always be easier to play the role of the machine that could not love another person in that way._

_Sherlock was not daft—he was not oblivious, throughout the years he had observed John’s behavior and deduced a reciprocated interest. But sentiment was a nasty liar. Sentiment was a fog that clouded the brain and led to misjudgments. Misjudgments that were made in the selfish interest of providing false evidence of what Sherlock hoped for, dreamed of—wanted more than anything._

_So every detail, every action, every time John glanced at Sherlock’s lips with longing—those moments were thrown away, filed into the folder of “sentimental misjudgment”._

_And then things with Mary fell apart and went the way that they did. And Sherlock’s vow shifted back to what it had always meant—to never let John, to always protect John, even with his life. Its why he shot Magnussen in the first place—silly John, believing it was for Mary, always believing everything Sherlock said—but no, everything was always done in John’s best interest. Even though Sherlock’s track record was beginning to look like he failed on that account every. Single. Time._

_He killed Magnussen to ensure John’s safety through guaranteeing his own exile. Sherlock had deduced Mary’s affiliations quickly after she shot him. And John’s life, his safety, was guaranteed if Sherlock left his life forever. A bullet to Magnussen’s head was two birds with one stone._

_And yet that decision seemed to ruin John, too. But just like the last time Sherlock abruptly left John’s life, it was better to have him alive and sad than as a corpse._

_Before he knew it, Sherlock had been standing in the middle of the flat staring at John’s chair for three hours. The sound of the door downstairs opening and clicking shut is what snapped him out of his stupor. He had retreated so far into the John wing of his Mind Palace that all other senses shut off._

_But it was John coming up the stairs now—he knew by the cadence of the steps—and not talking was not an option._

_They were historically not the talking type—call it toxic masculinity or traditional British emotional avoidance—but they did not Talk about things. Historically, they individually threw fits like children, created distance, and came back together as if nothing happened._

_Things were too tense, too broken, now to avoid confrontation. Sherlock could not let John slip away, not now, when they needed one another the most._

_Sherlock turned to face the entryway, smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket and mindlessly fixing his hair._

_Into battle._

_John reached the top of the stairs and instantly made eye contact with Sherlock. He hung his jacket up without a word, looking frustrated that Sherlock there._

_Of course Sherlock had to be right there when he got home. He couldn’t even have a few minutes to adjust to being in the same building as Sherlock, because his overbearing best friend had to be practically perched on top of the stairs awaiting his return._

_If he weren’t so upset it would be endearing._

_“What, Sherlock?” John said, exasperated._

_“I think that it’s important we discuss…things…what’s happened—things,” Sherlock stuttered, unusually anxious. He felt like he was in the middle of the ocean without a life-vest. He was navigating choppy waters in uncharted territory—uncharted for himself and his relationship with John._

_“Yeah, alright, uh, sure,” John replied and he crossed the room to sit down in his chair, motioning for Sherlock to take his seat._

_Sherlock took his rightful place across from John and put on his clinical face._

_“I was trying to protect you,” Sherlock started, but John jumped in._

_“Damn it, Sherlock, I already told you—you can’t decide what protecting me is or isn’t.”_

_“Your refusal to open the envelope Mary left you indicated you did not want to engage with what might have been inside,” Sherlock continued._

_“But it’s different—its different when I’m avoiding something and when my best friend is keeping something from me. Those two things are different.”_

_There was a pause—Sherlock absorbing this new perspective and John was clenching onto the arms of his chair with white knuckles._

_John knew how hard this was for Sherlock—hell, it was hard for him, too—to be open about feelings. That just wasn’t something mates did. And he knew it was wrong to act like that—god, John hated macho men like that—but he couldn’t help it. The military, his father, they practically engrained it in him._

_“It wasn’t my information to share,” Sherlock said._

_“Sherlock, I think it’s pretty clear Mary gave up any and all rights to making decisions about my life and what I know the minute she shot you.”_

_“I was trying to do the right thing.”_

_“That doesn’t mean you didn’t hurt me,” John interjected before Sherlock could further defend himself._

_God, it was maddening how badly Sherlock wanted to be right even when it came to topics he knew he knew nothing about. But the fact that all of this was so quintessentially Sherlock warmed a tiny corner of John’s heart._

_“I don’t understand why you get to be hurt when I have your best interest in mind. When I see a bigger picture than you do—why am I not able—“_

_“God damn my best interest!” John shouted, standing up to get the physical upper hand. He glared down at Sherlock, shaking with rage and fists clenched. “You think you know everything about me, but you don’t! You can’t know my every thought, every feeling—it’s just fucking impossible, Sherlock.”_

_Sherlock sat quietly, looking up at John, the only emotional tell being his widened eyes._

_“You’re not getting it! I want to be let in! I want to know the bigger picture! I want you to trust me,” John ranted, throwing his hands up in the air. “This is not something new Sherlock—this goes way back—almost 4 years ago now when you didn’t trust me enough to tell me you were faking your death.”_

_“No, instead, you lied then and you let me mourn, let me be miserable, let me believe I wasn’t a good enough friend to keep you from killing yourself. But you, oh you, got to see the bigger picture. This bigger picture you’re talking about but ever so conveniently continue to leave me out of.”_

_The words were just falling from his mouth now, and Sherlock was letting him, and he couldn’t find a way to stop. He was blinded by the emotion of it all, he couldn’t even see where the brake was—he didn’t stand a chance against all of the feeling he had been holding in for years now._

_“And another thing, you knew you weren’t coming back from that mission after shooting Magnussen. You took enough drugs to die on the way there and you didn’t even give me a proper goodbye then—either. All you ever do is lie Sherlock, but I’m still here, aren’t I?”_

_“John—“_

_“Wait, I’m not finished. Just one more thing, Sherlock. From day one I’ve dealt with your inability to recognize a single social cue—I’ve dealt with the appalling way you treat others, I’ve apologized for your atrocious behavior without you even asking, I’ve punched people in the face for you, I shot someone in cold blood to protect you the first day I met you—I put up with you running off every woman I’ve ever shown interest in—I’ve been kidnapped an unacceptable amount of times because of you—and I’m still here. So, what is it Sherlock, what do I have to do to earn your trust? To get in on the bigger picture? What’s next, crucifixion?”_

_The anger in John’s voice had died out and all that was left was a plea—desperation, a helpless desire to actually be a team member on the team he thought he was on—he sat back down. His arms were dead weight and landed on the armrests with a thud. One hand scrubbed down his face and he shuddered out a sigh._

_“There were three snipers aimed at you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.”_

_“What?” John looked up, frowning, confusion plastered across his face._

_“That was the arrangement. Moriarty wanted me to kill myself, so he made it clear—my life or yours. Only he had the code to call off the snipers—so he shot himself in the mouth knowing I could extract it from him given enough time.”_

_Sherlock sat forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and perching his chin on his hands. His face was frighteningly blank as he recounted this information._

_“Mycroft and I had planned for this possibility. So, the plan named Lazarus was put into action and I faked my own suicide. And then I spent two years abroad tracking down Moriarty’s accomplices and murdering them. I faked my own death to spare your life—the lives of those dearest to me. That’s why. That’s your bigger picture.”_

_“I,” John started, stunned._

_“And since then every move, every action has been an endeavor to keep your best interest at heart. And every move, every action has apparently been a miscalculation and instead only fostered a deep resentment in you towards me.”_

_John felt a stabbing pain in his heart and his stomach began to feel a little sick. The realization of how harsh—how hard—he had just been on Sherlock washing over him in nausea._

_“What I’m trying to say, is that, I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, his voice strained and his expression giving way to genuine remorse._

_“Wait, what?”_

_“I’m sorry, John. For leaving you out of things, for keeping things from you, for lying—I’m sorry. I thought it was the right thing to do—I thought I was helping. I never expected you to grieve over my death. I never expected my actions to be hurtful—I’m sorry.”_

_It was like dropping an Alka-Seltzer in water—John’s anger fizzled away in a matter of seconds. Instead he felt a warm, bubbly sensation seize up inside his chest._

_“Oh god—Sherlock, of course I forgive you. You don’t have to apologize anymore,” he replied, reaching out and firmly grasping Sherlock’s knee as a sign of reassurance._

_He ignored the flashback to his stag night that came racing to the forefront of his mind._

_“Really?” Sherlock asked, painfully innocent and vulnerable in this moment._

_These moments were few and far in-between but John treasured them anyway—the moments where Sherlock looked like a small child trying to navigate the world—moments where his cold, arrogant outer façade fell away._

_“I thought you were a genius, but you’re really just an idiot like the rest of us—to think I wouldn’t mourn your death—to think I wouldn’t care,” John laughed, leaning back in his chair and removing the physical contact between the two of them._

_It took a second but Sherlock began to laugh too. They sat there, laughing away the remaining tension, lost in the ridiculousness of it all._

_Hours later, after ordering takeaway and watching crap telley, Sherlock took a phone call from Mycroft. He hung up the phone looking a mixture of excitement and dread._

_“What is it?” John asked, flipping the television off._

_“We’ve located the final Thatcher bust, undoubtedly Mary’s next target,” Sherlock replied._

_“So, where is it?”_

_“The Trembley estate in Brighton. Mycroft’s sent a car to pick us up—it will be here shortly. She’s expected to hit the estate tonight and we need to be there to catch her before the trail goes cold.”_

_Sherlock was prepared to offer John a way out—not wanting him to feel uncomfortable tracking down his ex-wife in the middle of a crime._

_But John was already up and putting on his jacket, looking back at Sherlock expectantly._

_“What?”_

_“Nothing, John. The game is on!” Sherlock smiled, trotting down the stairs with butterflies in his stomach._

_And that was how it began. That’s how the two of them, against the rest of the world, got thrust into The Case of Multiple Moriartys._

John shut his laptop for the night, hearing the front door open and close, Sherlock’s long strides hitting the steps.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for reading!
> 
> The second should be up within the next few days or so. 
> 
> Stay tuned for more drama and angst and some secretly soft bois.


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